The Sicilian
by Thaliae
Summary: A master can tell you what he expects of you. A


_To Neil, on your Un-Birthday. Or possibly for Christmas, since that's sooner…_

_This is obviously another story in the nationality theme that appears to have taken us over at the moment, but isn't, for reasons which may or may not become clear later on, in the ST universe. Post GoF, AU for 5th year._

_Now for a quote from Jurassic Park of all places. Hark at me getting all philosophical:_

"_You can make a boat, but you can't make the ocean. You can make an airplane, but you can't make the air. Your powers are much less than your dreams of reason would have you believe."_

**The Sicilian**

Dumbledore looked solemnly at the members of the Order surrounding him, the twinkle in his eyes noticeably absent.

"I'm afraid to tell you that during the night Harry Potter was murdered."

Gasps came from around the room, but Dumbledore continued, as though if he kept talking everything would go back to normal.

"He suffered an apparent allergic reaction to a piece of Peruvian pineapple secreted in the otherwise delicious fruit salad prepared by Molly and despite all the help we could give, he died. However, it is my belief that his death was not as innocent as it appears, and since only members of the Order can enter Grimmauld Place, there must be a traitor amongst us once more."

At this, both Ron and Hermione turned to glare over their hot chocolate at Snape, who, unpleasant as he found the duties he performed for both his masters; neither hexed them nor did he gloat over the death of the Boy-Who-Lived-Longer-Than-Expected. They were as powerless as ever, and he'd won this confrontation before, after the werewolf had died.

Remus Lupin had been the first casualty of many. His death had initially been seen as an accident – the shelves in the Black family library were old and heavily burdened, it wasn't surprising that they had collapsed – but the meddlesome teenagers had shot that theory down. Someone had tampered with the bookcases. Someone had deliberately engineered the death of a pathologically friendly, and for most of time, entirely harmless individual. Someone in this room. They had struck well, for though he wasn't the best dueller, strategising had long been his forte. Snape grudgingly admitted that if Lupin had still been alive, the traitor would have been apprehended by now, and Potter irritating him still.

He was fairly sure he knew who it was, but he was damned if he was going to help the Golden…Duo, or any of the others in the face of their hostility. Since Potter was dead, there seemed little point in continuing to co-operate with people who disliked and distrusted him. Let them lynch him for all he cared. He wasn't going to reveal himself for them.

He survived the day, weathering the accusations as only he could, but night was soon upon them, and sleep would be a blessed relief. Until that is, Ron, the only remaining Weasley child, pointed out that every time they closed their eyes someone kicked the proverbial bucket. It hadn't gone unnoticed, by any means, but this open observation seemed to annoy the traitor in their midst, for during the night Ron was choked by a grotesquely carved Halloween pumpkin.

Hermione's murder was met with numbness, and a quiet resolve. They tried not to sleep the night after, but an enchantment softly whispered led them all to slumber, and when they awoke Tonks was dead. The Order was being systematically exterminated, promising individuals cut down in the prime of their lives, as though they were no more of a nuisance than Doxys in the expensive Pskovian curtains.

Weeks passed in the same manner, until as the sun set that night, only Snape, Moody and Black remained at Headquarters. Downing a Frenchman in one gulp, sobriety was the last of his worries right now, Snape rolled his eyes; it was pretty obvious how this little confrontation was going to pan out.

"I've never liked you Snape," growled Moody, and Snape snorted at that understatement, "but I never thought you had it in you to kill the only person apart from Dumbledore who did."

There was no arguing with Moody in this… mood, so Snape decided to die as he had lived, defiantly.

"Can I help it if Draco has the survival instincts of a dead newt? He knew the risks."

"Your own Godson Snape!"

He smirked, and gestured at Black.

"And his."

"Together?" queried Moody and Black nodded, raising Harry's wand, since his had been snapped long ago.

Snape's body slumped lifelessly in his chair.

Sirius began to laugh, not the bark that seemed more like Padfoot than a man, but hysterical giggles. Moody was eyeing him cautiously; it seemed the past fifteen years had caught up with him, but whether it was Azkaban or sheer relief that the open sore that Severus Snape represented was gone, he didn't know. He sheathed his wand, and limped over to where Sirius sat. The laughter had stopped, but he was smiling Grimly.

"Moody?" asked Sirius breathlessly

"Yes lad?" came a gruff response

"How does it feel to be wrong?"

Harry's wand and a flash of light was the last thing that Alastor Moody saw before darkness claimed him.

All of the lights blazed on, and Albus Dumbledore approached the figure of Sirius Black, sitting calmly in his favourite chair, chewing thoughtfully on a Sugar Quill. He made no response as Albus pushed up his left sleeve revealing pale skin marred by a dark mark, displaying the truth to all who had been too blind to see it.

The figures around the room stirred, and stretched.

"Sirius? It was you? I can't believe you killed me!"

"Sorry Harry, but all's fair in love and all that."

Hermione looked puzzled.

"So if it was you, who was your accomplice? I know for a fact you didn't kill Ron, because you were actually asleep. I had to poke you to wake you up."

Everyone watched in shock as a smug looking Snape pushed up his arm to reveal a matching 'M' adorning his left wrist. Snape idly contemplated how many people would have aneurisms at his next statement.

"Well played Black."

"The same to you Snape."

He deflated slightly. No one had collapsed, not even Potter. Albus was grinning in that infuriating way of his.

It wasn't like they were going to make a habit of civility – one game of Mafia was not enough to wipe away a lifetime of hatred.

But it was a start.

_If you've never played Mafia, it goes something like this - __. Bear in mind this is the stupid American version. _


End file.
